Breathless
by Citrine Nebulae
Summary: A brawl between human and yautja lands them in a compromising position, leading Hannah to believe there might be more to their relationship than she originally thought. Based on the events of Chapter 11 of The Unforgotten by B.A. Gemar. Details inside.


**A/N: This is a one-shot piece of fluff written by Colorful Crayola and Citrine Nebulae. It is based on Chapter 11 from The Unforgotten by fanfic author B.A. Gemar. Absolutely everyone should go read her stuff. If you want to read the story of Hannah and Jar-hidda, start with Cold Hands.**

**To those who know in their hearts that Hannah and Jar-hidda are soul mates, we join you in suffering. Every day. Every hour. **

**Hannah and Jar-hidda are the property of B.A. Gemar. We have her permission to upload this to FF.**

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><p>Hannah's eyes tracked from his recently-fastened codpiece to the amused way his mandibles clicked. The spiny hairs on his brow were twitching, bringing a playful glimmer to his yellow eyes.<p>

She stood quickly and widened her stance into a battle-ready crouch, arms up and muscles tensed. It didn't seem like the serious confrontation like it was when she was fighting for her own bed, but she wasn't about to go back to lying on the floor without putting up a fight. In the end she was going to get beat to hell, but it was better than yielding immediately.

A surprised—yet pleased—yowl rolled through his throat and he in turn took to a battle stance with knees bent and his powerful talons flexing in the tawny furs scattering the floor. Hannah took an enormous breath of preparation, letting it steady her. Her stance felt assured, for this seemed familiar territory.

For a brief moment neither of them struck, unwilling to make the first strike. Despite the bed, they managed to circle each other before a move was made, bringing one another closer. Jar-hidda watched and found it hard to take her seriously—she was much like an angry kitten to him—but he knew not to underestimate her.

In Jar-hidda's experience, the battle seldom went to the meek. He closed the gap in a rush of bounding steps. To Hannah they sounded like the crash of a vengeful thunder. She scurried away, wary of her footwork, unwilling to fall on her ass to give him an opening. She dodged an uppercut, the curve of his talons just nicking the soft underside of her chin, and fell away, putting distance between them once more.

He gave a chitter of approval and refocused on her eyes, his a hard yellow line against her steely glare. He weighed the set of her body and knew she'd make the next strike. For a yautja, there was joy in the mere honor of a fight. But to this little human, it was a conquest to be won. It was a foreign concept to him, and yet he found himself thinking back to his trophies.

When he looked upon his winnings, he recalled details of the glorious battle in which they had been won. The human's want was what came from the end of its fight. It was so like a human to think ahead towards what they would gain rather than focus on the purest act itself, the process by which they'd _earned_ it. She was no different—she challenged him for a place for rest. He would not make it easy on her - she would overcome the shortcomings of her race and think well of this match he offered her.

She lashed out, bringing a foot forward in a lunge, twisting her body to the side and landing a well-placed blow on his ribs. He retaliated before she could recede again, driving the heel of his hand into her middle.

Hannah gasped, holding the injury to her solar plexus. The bare skin, uncovered by her loincloth ensemble, buzzed where he touched her. It did nothing to abate as she was forced to mirror his circling movement, preparing for the next round.

Her breath came short, but he hadn't hit her _that_ hard. She shook herself, re-positioning her arms to guard her center more efficiently. Without even thinking about it, she bared her teeth at him, feeling the tendons in her neck stand out. He trilled at her, an intrigued sound as he tilted his head, the beads of his dreadlocks clicking against his shoulders. He returned the sentiment, flaring wide his mandibles and roaring with all the ferocity of the creature whose skin adorned the floor. Hannah screeched, a sound of conviction rather than power, and rushed him.

Jar-hidda thrust a fist out to meet her. She spun to avoid it, then gripped his upper arm and shoulder, vaulting up so she was level with his head. Her hip hit his opposite shoulder so her body was wrapped around him like a shrug. She twisted slightly and, in one deft movement, threw her weight and momentum into rolling forward over his shoulder, kicking and twisting her legs, dragging him to the ground.

The metal rang from some five hundred-odd pounds that had collided with it in a jumbled pile driver. Hannah writhed, half-trapped beneath his tree trunk of a body.

She hung on as he bucked, trying to get her out from under him. Hannah was beginning to feel the shock of having actually bringing him down and she had no real endgame now. She yanked away from him as his hands came up to grab her. His other fisted in the back of her chest piece, but before he could pry her off Hannah slammed an elbow into his domed head, causing him to bellow, the sound deafening now they were so close.

She didn't think she had actually hurt him: she could feel that his rubbery, appendage like dreadlocks softened the impact considerably, and he had the thickest skull of any in the widening universe.

Finally, Jar-hidda shoved her away. She slid the length of the floor and stopped at the bed of furs. The shove was his first desperate, uncalculated move since he'd taken her onto his ship and into the primordial darkness of space. The fight was not over, but he wanted the tiny human away while he collected himself. She'd proven herself potentially deadly.

Hannah got to her hands and knees, panting, suppressing a groan. Her hands were bruised, her ribs creaked, and her neck had been wrenched to the side when he fell and crushed her. She'd probably hurt herself more than she'd hurt him.

But in her hands was the codpiece. There was a definite unsteadiness to his rattle now, she noted with a small sense of triumph.

Across the room, he stood, and she scrambled to her feet to face him.

Jar-hidda had changed his mind. From the instant she'd bore her dull little teeth to him, she had been invested in the fight. She'd met his expectations. She'd made this an unforgettable duel, even among those of his youth.

He charged her. She stumbled away. He saw pain flicker across her features and knew that was what had caused her misstep. He tackled her, careful to avoid a repeat of the fate she'd met after being rolled by the reptile on the jungle planet.

She managed to avoid him well enough that they didn't go into the floor again. She kicked and wriggled but he held her like a straitjacket. She jerked one arm free, accidentally punching him in the mouth. Pain lanced up her arm - she'd broken it, she was sure - but she ignored it, using his recoil to get her other arm out. She trapped his throat in a hold, pressing her arm into his neck instead of her hand, because the bones were shifting and crackling, practically obliterated.

The rings he wore at his neck cut at her skin so she loosened her grip but continued to press her weight into his front, forcing him to back up.

His legs hit the edge of the bed and he fell to his back on top of it. Hannah spilled forward with him, losing her grip on his throat.

She blinked, realizing she was hunched over and staring at his dreadlocks scattering over the fur of his bed. She sat up quickly, driving her knees into his triceps, pinning his arms down. He grabbed her injured hand, running a short thumb over the break. She hissed in pain and twisted her knees, trying to force him to let go.

In the course of their fight, she'd gained about fifty new bruises, lost a hank of hair, and broken every bone in her hand. And yet here she was. Despite his superior physique, _she_ was the one who had him at a disadvantage. He had not given it to her, and, bodily, he could have ousted her off of him at any moment. But that did not mean it would give him control again. She'd taken it, and it had nothing to do with her position atop him, or the blows she'd landed in the fight.

He regarded her, calm and unhurt. He released her hand and she immediately curled it to her breast, trying to shield the break from future harm.

"I yield," he said.

His arms were spread over the top of his bed. His body was limp, completely unresisting. She knew not to let him up, though, and continued to dig her kneecaps into his arms. Why would he yield? Her weight was barely half his. Even in this position, he could easily throw her off. But he was just staring at her, one mandible clicking. It was surreal. There was something different about the way he looked at her—it wasn't his usual glower or flat affect, as if he were regarding her with calculated apathy. There was something else swimming in the sifting amber of his eyes and it brought a heat to her cheeks she hadn't expected.

Heat. She could see him clearly—every little detail in his pebbly skin, the contours of his body and the way his muscles moved. . . even the color of his skin. How did he see her? She knew vaguely that they saw in heat—but could see the shape of her face? Was she just a big red mass of heat before him? Could he appreciate her body the way she could with him? Did it even really matter in his culture how one looked?

Because they all looked the same to her, and she was certain humans all looked the same to them, as well.

It was probably one of the things she would never know. One of those things that you just couldn't describe with words. He couldn't see letters in a book because they weren't raised, weren't giving off any heat. It was probably the same for the little details that made her her.

Jar-hidda lifted his hand slowly and Hannah leaned back, relinquishing some of the pressure she held him with, putting her knees on the bed instead. His fingers brushed at her face and she realized—her blush. He had probably seen the heat rise in her cheeks. Suddenly she was self-conscious, acutely aware that she was practically straddling her mentor—or, really, the guy who beat her up occasionally.

His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down to her neck, and then her clavicle, where her blush finally stopped. He chittered at her again and she tensed, expecting the fight to resume with her being thrown off of him. But instead, the tip of one of his claws circled through the fine hairs beneath her ear. She wasn't sitting on him, just hovering, an infinitesimal amount of space between them. As he breathed, his sides brushed her legs. His chest rose to touch her thighs, just ghosting the skin there. When he exhaled, his sides fell away from her again. He eyed her from beneath his brow, waiting.

She blew out a thin, shaky line of breath and laid the splayed fingers of her uninjured hand just off-center on his sternum. His flesh was the same as it'd always been, mottled with green and purple, though she hadn't had much opportunity to inspect him since he'd been lying prone on the floor of her cabin back on earth. Under his training, glancing at him when she thought he may finally be looking away usually earned her a hard rap atop the head. Now, he was perfectly still, inviting her to continue

It was slow work exploring his chest, his shoulders, with one hand. She continued up to his neck but he seized her fingers and squeezed just hard enough to let her know that she would be allowed to continue, but to bypass this part of him.

The possible reasons for this gave her pause. She knew some humans couldn't be touched in some places due to some prior abuse. Could that be the case for him? Did such a strong race suffer from trauma?

She skipped to his jaw, prodding it slightly in askance. He closed his eyes, extinguishing his yellow gaze from where it had been watching her progress. More confident now that she was unobserved, she ran her fingers over the area that normally showed just under the edges of his mask. She avoided his mandibles for now, though they were still unmoving, and tested his brow, careful not to go against the direction of the spined protrusions. She confirmed they had the same rubber-smooth texture as his hair-like appendages.

The roots of his dreadlocks were thick enough that they fit naturally in her fist. Her touch elicited from him a rumble that she could feel beneath her as it rolled through his cavernous chest.

Her lips curled. It appeared that they offered him sensation. Well, then—

She ran her fist down the length of it. As it moved outward from his skull, it narrowed into the approximate diameter of her littlest finger. She started on another, tightening her fist in certain places, smirking as she felt him shudder. So, the battle-hardened hunter of a warrior culture could be touched by something softer than close-fisted blows. Though he was a skilled fighter, it fascinated her to see his body respond in ways uninspired by combat.

She was just beginning to enjoy her little game, committing it to memory and now definitely wishing she had the use of both of her hands, when he sat up swiftly. Startled, she clung to him so she didn't fall over backwards. She was now straddling his lap, and his gaze was on hers again. His eyes were heavy-lidded, as if her ministrations had threatened to lull him to sleep.

She gave one last teasing tug on the end if his hair and awaited retribution.

He kept both arms around her and leaned forward. She froze as he approached. The fanged tips of his mandibles stroked lightly at her throat. His hand helped to cradle her injured one.

She had to remind herself how to breathe. Eventually, she gave up on trying to outdo him. His movements on her neck caused her mind to become so muddled that she couldn't even complete the simple task of working her grasp through his dreadlocks. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

He made soft rumbling purrs, like those of an old lion. She wondered if this wasn't some technique his kind used on each other. After all, they had to have some way of preserving their bodies' levels, else they'd burn out for being perpetually pissed off. Maybe everything he did was meant to soothe her so she'd be convinced this was a good idea. Like alcohol, or some other intoxicating thing.

He made the sound into her neck again and the muscles where he'd hit her earlier buzzed again.

It seemed—out of place. What was she to him? They'd spent their time together fighting or. . . .

That was it. Why had he brought her with him? Was she some sort of project? An object of amusement for him? But here she was, pressed against him, sharing an—by all accounts—intimate embrace. He'd lain still while she explored him. He had watched her face for permission and, when it had been given, he'd been slow and careful.

Maybe that was just her human emotions getting in the way.

She wanted it to be true—that he'd done it for her.

And that was more terrifying, more odd than anything she had felt or seen so far.

She put her good hand on his shoulder and pushed away from him just a smidgen, putting a few more centimeters between their bodies. Her gaze faltered and she found it suddenly difficult to meet his eyes. "Jar-hidda, I—"

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted—for better or for worse—by the sound of an explosion somewhere below them. Jar-hidda was on his feet in a flurry of curses, dumping her unceremoniously to the floor. The moment was gone and he disappeared out of the room to tend to the ship.

Typical.

Hannah sat on the bed and barely had enough time to stop her head from spinning by the time Jar-hidda returned, mask adorning his face and her own retrofitted mask in his hand. He handed it to her and Hannah sighed heavily in defeat before taking it and fitting it to her face. "What broke now?"

"Our air."

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><p><strong>Colorful Crayola is the author of Phantasm, an ongoing fanfiction featuring Wolf from AvP: Requiem.<strong>

**Citrine Nebulae is a useless member of this website and writes nothing, ever. **

**Thank you for reading! Please show your support for B.A. Gemar by reading and reviewing Cold Hands/The Unforgotten!**


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